Silence, Silence
by The Queen of Fragile Hearts
Summary: Sherlolly Phantom AU. Few people know what truly transpired at L'Opera Populaire the last night of its operation. Perhaps, after so many years, the case of the phantom and the lost soprano might finally be resolved.


Silence, Silence

Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera, any of the story's adaptations from from Gaston Leroux's 1910 novel, or any part of the BBC's Sherlock.**

**Author's Word: Hello friends, tis I, the lazy fan-fic author! Phantom just came through OKC and I can't stop thinking about a Sherlolly one-off I read a while ago, and it just got me inspired to try my own Phantom AU. I hope that you'll forgive me for not updating TWoaS in AGES and will consider this something of a peace offering? I do love you all. Hugs and kisses.**

**Notes: Anything in italics can be inner thought, flashbacks, or simply emphasis, or... well, I think you'll be able to tell what's the haps from the context :3**

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_This dance always reminded her of her family, of warm nights in the little library with Papa's fiddle singing along with Mama's steps. The silent music swelled in her heart as she glided across the empty stage, alone in the vast opera house. She smiled as she swept her leg to the side in a low bow, and with an elegant return, made a calm pirouette._

_Suddenly she was aware that the melody no longer came from within her, but that from somewhere high in the catwalk a single violin called out that familiar song. As she carried on, she carefully questioned the hidden musician._

_"Who are you? Why do you hide?"_

_From within the curtains of the left wing came a voice out of a dream, dark and velveted with a low, feline thrum. It was entrancing, nearly predatory, and she would have stumbled in surprise if she hadn't been so eager to capture every word._

_"You have an elegant form, yet there is hesitation and a lack of confidence in your limbs. I am conducting an experiment. Perhaps with the song played in the exact manner to which you are accustomed, you may yet reach a higher level of your art. Tell me: why would a natural soprano such as yourself audition as an alto in the chorus?"_

_Vaguely insulted, yet challenged, she shifted all of her physical focus to lengthening and loosening her limbs, feeling them flow like a current through the air. Reaching the dance's grand crescendo and prickling with anger, she felt transcendent, ethereal, as though she might take flight at any moment. The music mirrored her every emotion, rising and falling and crashing like waves against a sheer cliff._

_She held the closing position through the last strains of the melody, exhaustion shaking her core, then crumbled against the weathered planks. Frustrated by the slight stutter in her voice, she gasped out, "You didn't answer my questions. And while your assumptions are astute, they're a little rude and presumptuous, thank you very much."_

_She was answered by soft laughter that sent an odd thrill up her spine._

_"Ah, little prima. I can make you something magnificent, if you will follow my teachings. And you must tell no one of this, or there will be consequences. You will be waiting center stage at midnight, every evening there isn't a show."_

_"Consequences? Who do you think you are? What power do you presume to have over me? Show me your face!"_

_But there was no answer. The mysterious violinist had disappeared, as though he had never been there at all._

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L'Opéra Populaire, Paris, 1905

Raoul Tomás, the Vicomte de Chagny, was no longer a young man. He winced as he shifted on the old crate before the auctioneer's podium, wishing he had not left his cane at home and cursing his own vanity. But he promised himself- promised her- that he would wait through the entire showcase, that he would claim that one particular item for his own. The auctioneer prattled on about this and that, posters and other antiquated things until at last, at last on the table it sat before him.

How many long years had slipped through his grasp since he had sat in this opera house! Since she had spoken of spectres and songs in her head... He had scarcely believed any of her tales, scarcely believed even what he had seen with his own eyes wide open, but there it was, so small and unassuming but tainted with such dark memories.

The gold paint was dulled somewhat in scuffed places, but it still glimmered in the theatre's faint light. Upon the crushed green velvet, a well-dressed primate held a pair of tarnished cymbals. With the turn of a key, he came alive and danced, shaking his miniature instruments.

It was exactly as she described.

A mere thirty francs and the trinket was his. The attendants made to move it to the temporary storage but he bade them leave it. He could not bear to part with it now. He was looking at the little toy, committing every inch of it to memory when one of the pages stopped before him.

"Excuse me, Monsieur Vicomte. The music box was discovered with this inside its trunk. It is yours, now."

Laid upon a pair of white-gloved hands was a small leather journal. It was black, such a deep black as to be called midnight, and hand-scrolled with a mass of tangling roses. They were painted a startling, rich red. Tom gently lifted the book, turning it this way and that and running his thumb along the gilt-edged pages.

With a heavy head and a full heart, he thanked the boy and waved him off, clutching the diary to his breast. He took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself as the auctioneer called up the next item.

Lot 666. The chandelier.

A mystery never fully explained. The case of the phantom and the lost soprano.

As the fixture rose again into the air above the main house, a grand, glittering festival of older days, Tom opened the journal and read the inscription on the first ledger page.

_For Raoul Tomás_.

The electric lights blazed against every individual crystal, casting such dazzling brilliance over the whole house.

Tom turned the page.


End file.
